Lollipops and Cherry Schnapps
by OpalMagnus
Summary: Mai Kujaku wasn't always the strong, independent woman she is today. Her spirit was sculpted by loss, tragedy, and heartbreak. Uncover the secret tales of Mai Kujaku's past.


"_Five!_"

This was going to be his year.

"_Four!_"

He could feel it.

"_Three!_"

"_Two!_"

"_One!_"

Time Square erupted into a cacophony of cheers as the ball dropped, ushering in 1969. Couples mashed lips under the spray of fireworks and confetti. Women cried, "Yes!" at the sight of their kneeling sweethearts. The geysers of crystal champagne doused the crowd as the hollering only rose. Those who had celebrated before hand filled the air with songs inspired by passion and alcohol.

From a secluded section, Ren Kujaku watched what his family would call the "barbaric festivities". Smiling, he admired the pureness of their joy. With no one to impress or disappoint, they could truly unleash their glee.  
Ren, as expected of him, remained as indifferent as possible, to the event. However, even the upper-class was allowed to celebrate the New Year, as long as they did so quietly and tastefully. Something his mother had difficulty adjusting to.

"Shinjiro, darling, just one more sherry, I swear," she giggled, her words slurring as she tipped the bottle over her glass.

"Grace," he hissed, ripping the bottle from her gloved hand, "My mother's giving you daggers. Please, calm down until we return to the hotel. You know how she feels about you already."

She huffed, waving her hand in a dismissive fashion. "Your mother's about as much fun as sliding down a jagged mountain! It's the holiday for God's sake. A little drink never killed anyone."

Crossing her arms, she shrugged off her husband's attempt to comfort her. Ren barely understood their marriage. His father spent most of his time chasing after his wife, scolding her for this and that. He acted more like a mother than she did. Ren supposed it was her looks that attracted him. Her short, honey blonde curls highlighted bright blue eyes with thick lashes. Along with her porcelain skin and rosy cheeks, she was the ideal American beauty—even twenty years after they'd met. Her waist was still as tiny, though, her hips had widened from giving birth. She was, indeed, a trophy wife.

Perhaps, however, his father secretly enjoyed her bouncy disposition. Having been raised under a strict Japanese household, there was something to envy in the American way. Despite coming from good money and a prominent house, Grace was instilled with an ostentatious spirit. Being loud and proud was an admirable trait in the States. In Japan, however, silence was golden.

Which is why Ren's grandmother despised her daughter-in-law from the day she married in. She desperately tried to break off the engagement, introducing her son to many other _Japanese _suitors. Ren's father, however, was already too lost in her starry eyes. Rather than end up with _no _grandchildren, his mother begrudgingly accepted his choice. Till this day, though, she harbored nothing but spite. It was a good thing Ren came out looking so much like his father. Any strong resemblance to _her _and his grandmother might have hated him all the same.

"Come along now, son," his father called, yanking Ren from his thoughts. "It's time for the gala."

Shuffling anxiously, Ren tried to break into the newly tailored suit yet the material still felt too stiff. He eventually gave up, opting to mingle with the other guests.

Scanning the vast ballroom, he tried to pick out someone who seemed approachable to converse with. All of the men were too tall and burly, laughing hardily as they gulped soda and scotch. They would definitely scoff at his meek presence. The women, on the other hand, in their long shimmering dresses were just as intimidating. Though a group of them flashed him a smiled and waved, he merely blushed and scuttled to another area of the room.

He decided to hide away by the drinks and hours d'oeuvres for the night. Socializing was really not his forte. Back home in Tokyo, the task was much simpler. Everyone was just as reserved, if not more, than him. Besides, he knew what to talk about back home. He'd been heavily schooled in the arts, economics, and history of Japan. He also made it his hobby to know the current events. You never know who you might meet, as his father always advised. When it came to America, however, he had little to no clue. He knew the names of a few movie stars and had read an English novel or two, but, otherwise, he was out of luck. Perhaps, he should have prepped before the trip here.

Father had told him a few months ago, after all. Mother begged him to go to the ball drop this year. She hadn't returned to the United States since moving years ago. Finally convincing him, he agreed to pay for the trip. Once his mother and father found out, they invited themselves, trusting their son wouldn't have _dreamed _of leaving without them.

He caught sight of his mother, who appeared to be uncontrollably laughing with a flute of Zinfandel latched in his fingers. Twirling and showing off the many bows decorating her dress, her group clapped as she finished with an exaggerated curtsy and blew a few kisses. Ren shook his head, slightly embarrassed, but far away enough where he could find her amusing.

The sound of a chiming glass alerted the room as the guests all faced the orchestra. The conductor held his baton high, everyone waiting with anticipation. Then, it sank and rocked in smooth motions. Pleased by the pleasant ensemble of strings, the party gave applause. Men offered their hands to their dates as the waltz began and soon, the room was filled with swaying couples. Ren simply observed, hiding his disappointment. Part of him wanted a dance, if not to tell his friends back home he had danced with an American girl. Perhaps, even stolen a kiss…

"Excuse me," a soft voice interrupted.

Blinking, he turned to its owner, surprised to see a woman standing before him. She was his age, wearing an elegant beige gown that left her shoulders revealed. A simple crystal broche was pinned at the center. He admired the way a few of her many platinum curls framed her face, extenuating her slender face. She tilted her head, the light changing her deep blue eyes to violet. Eyes that blue were so rare, even in the West, he couldn't help but stare. She noticed his amazement, turning to hide her blushing.

"Did you come to say, 'Hello?'," he urged.

"Yes, I did," she replied sheepishly.

"Hello," he greeted, in the sultriest voice he could muster.

She giggled. He sounded more like a sick old man than a smooth ladies' man.

"Hello."

"I'm Kujaku. Ren Kujaku." He waggled his eyebrows for effect.

"Miranda," she laughed. "Miranda Steiner. Kujaku? That's very ethnic."

"It's Japanese," he offered, judging by her curious look, she had been wondering which part of Asia he reigned from.

"American," she shrugged. "But you probably knew that."

"Yeah, I could easily tell."

"Oh, really? How's that?"

"Because you're stunning."

Flustered, she turned away again. "Oh, my…"  
A confident grin forming, he extended his hand, "Would you like to dance?"

She smiled back, accepting the offer. "I'd love to."

He ushered her to the dance floor, his eyes never leaving hers and likewise.

Suddenly, the room felt empty as though the party was over and this was their own private affair. Placing one hand against the small of her back, he raised the other to meet hers. Their fingers melded in a tight embrace as their bodies inched closer. They began to dance, unconcerned with form or fashion.

"This is nice."

"It is," she breathed.

His palm glided up and down her back, noting how it curved so smoothly. She bit her lip, momentarily closing her eyes as she focused on his light touch. Her senses tingled down her spine further and further until she could feel it in the pit of her stomach. Her nerves twisted as he grazed the nape of her neck. He watched her face, the way her head tilted back when he reached certain areas. Her neck. Her back. Her ear. He was driving her wild with touches alone—mild ones at that. He returned his hand to its standard position. Perhaps, even a few inches lower.

"Do you ever feel…lonely?" she asked.

"I suppose everyone does at some point."

"I, mean, do you ever feel like…you don't belong?"

He lifted her arm, twirling her before answering, "Like there's somewhere you should be, but aren't?"

"Do you ever feel…like you're not living up to expectations?"

"Like you're supposed to remain composed,"

"But you really just want to scream?"

"You want to know what raw emotion is."

"But they _force _you to hold it in."

"And it's building up," he suggested, leaning in.

"To some uncontrollable yearning."

"And you're afraid you're going to _burst_."

"But at the same time…"

"If it happened…"

"You'd be almost…"

"_Relieved_," they replied simultaneously.

They realized just how close their faces were. They could feel each other's hot and heavy breaths warming the other's neck. Their lips were centimeters apart, threatening to meet with just one nudge.

Both pulled away, aware of where they were. They searched the room for any suspicious glances, breathing again only when they found none.

"Where do you have to be tonight?" she asked nonchalantly, hoping the tone would detract any potential eavesdroppers.

"With you." His failed to hide his wanting as well as her.

"Do you have your own hotel room?"

"I can get one."

"Meet me by the veranda when you do."


End file.
